


Fool Me Once

by Lyzzybelle



Series: Stories I started to write (and might one day finish) [3]
Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Bartender Stiles, Bisexual Stiles, College Student Stiles, Flashbacks, Hurt Stiles, Kidnapped!Sam, Mystery, Stiles Leaves the Pack, Stiles feels betrayed, Stiles is BAMF don't get on the bad side of his bat, Stiles meets Sam and Dean, The Road to Hale is Paved With Good Intentions, but not really, kidnapped!stiles, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-18 02:45:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1412074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyzzybelle/pseuds/Lyzzybelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam tries not to think about the grumbling of his stomach, the ache in his back from being hunched over. He worries, that if he needs his brother's help to walk out, that the kid will be left. Sam has always known Dean's priorities as surely as he knew how to conjugate Latin verbs.<br/>Or<br/>Sam and Stiles meet as captives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam wouldn't mind if Dean would hurry up, just a little.

**THEN**

Sam _thinks_ he has been captured for five days when the newest captive arrives, but he is not sure.

Could have been longer, or less, and the malatov cocktail of drugs that he was given when they first caught him kept him muddled and cotton headed for some time.

The basement is a windowless hole, so he is unable to keep time by tracking the passing of night and day. He does, however, count the meals (five visits which result in a bowl of scraps and a bowl of water shoved roughly through the small rectangular slot near the floor). The food is unappetizing, but Sam eats anyway; Dean will come for him (he will) and he refuses to put his brother in jeopardy by being too dehydrated or malnourished to help with the escape. With their dangerous lifestyle, Sam has played both the captive and the rescuer before and one truth remains constant: when one Winchester is caught, the other will find them.

It shames him to admit that he wishes it will be soon.

* * *

 

The newest inmate arrives unconscious, as Sam had, a limp form with hair buzzed shorter than his brother's. With the slightest of sounds, Sam scoots forward on the concrete, the soft sounds ignored by the burly form carrying the unconscious bundle.

A booted foot nudges the barred door open in the cell next to his and the body is casually dumped in a way that has Sam wincing in sympathy. The guy might be unconscious now but he will feel its effects when he regains conscious.

Sam had felt those bruises himself for two meals. Two days (he _thinks_ ).

A loud _clang_ when the cell door is closed and faint vibrations are felt as he inches closer to the bars to squint at the prone form.

Footsteps echo in the chamber. There is a sound of a weapon being pulled from a holster, then the steady _clank! clank! clank!_ of a billy-club dragging against the bars and Sam flinches.

It is part of the game, he reminds himself.

(He is just pretending he is scared, playing along until Dean gets here. Sam isn't really scared, Winchester's don't scare easily, but he wouldn't mind if Dean decides to hurry it up, just a little.)

The man walking by finds this amusing and chuckles as he raps sharply on his cell.

"Soon." The man promises, like he does each time he comes in the room. He never explains what will happen, but the dark amusement in his voice promises it won't be anything good.

It is the only word Sam has heard since he first awoke in his cell, disoriented and angry. In the beginning, Sam had shouted himself hoarse, first demanding explanations, then later to provoke a response. All to no avail. Other than the food and water, Sam's existence was hardly acknowledged.That, more than anything, he found unsettling.

 

* * *

 

The sixth meal arrives.

Sam's hands shake as he holds the bowl to his lips but only a few drops spill out. He tries to ration the water, knowing that the next meal will not arrive until long after his thirst is renewed. There is a rustle of movement in the next cell, a low groan and Sam carefully sets the plastic bowl down. The ceiling of the cage does not allow for Sam to stand fully upright, so he scoots to the left side and grasps the bars.

"Hey. You okay?"

His voice is still hoarse from the yelling he did two (three? four?) meals ago and his throat hurts but he keeps trying to speak, consciously keeps the pitch soothing, reassuring.

More movement from the cell as the figure tries to sit.

"Where..?" the word is followed by a hiss of pain and Sam's hands clench around the bars in frustration, hating that he can't do anything but watch and talk.

"You okay?" he asks again and this time, as the head turns, he gets his first look at the person in the next cell.

The kid can't be much older than sixteen or seventeen and Sam can only imagine the terror the kid must be feeling. Not every kid has had the advantage of being raised by a hunter. Say what you will about John Winchester's parenting skills – cuddly the man was not - but he did teach Sam how to handle himself in an emergency.

_Assess. Evaluate. Calculate. Bide your time son._

Of course, his capturers must have read the John Winchester guide to raising kids because his initial assessment upon waking had shown nothing but a handful of bare cells. No beds conveniently bolted to the floor (bolts can be removed, frames can be dismantled and used as weapons) and observation of the guards had given him very little information. Sam's multiple attempts to draw the attention of the guard had given depressing results.

Now, Sam was just waiting.

Because Dean would come.

Any day now.

* * *

 

The kid proves to be a surprise.

There is no terror, just a calm resignation as his eyes wander around the bare rooms that tells Sam this one is no stranger to kidnappings. At first he does not touch the food, but Sam soon talks him into eating. Sam is sure that he could walk out on his own, but the kid looks so battered that Sam thinks someone will have to carry him.

(He tries not to think about the grumbling of his stomach, the ache in his back from being hunched over. He worries, that if Sam needs his brother's help to walk out, that the kid will be left. Sam has always known Dean's priorities as surely as he knew how to conjugate Latin verbs.)

They trade names.

Given the amount of time the kid was out cold (at least one meal), Sam calculates aloud that is has been close to a week since he was grabbed outside the bakery in Nevada where he had stopped to pick up a slice of pie for Dean and just over a day since Stiles was taken.

"Not taken." Stiles corrects, his voice low and hard.

"What do you mean?"

Stiles sighs, then rolls to the floor with a grunt. He curls sideways, back to Sam as he draws his knees toward his chest.

"It doesn't matter." He mutters wearily.

It takes two more meals for Stiles share.

He had been on spring break from his sophomore year at Cal Tech, visiting friends. _Friends_ he had said, the word uttered in such a snide tone that spoke of a world of hurt and with just a little bewilderment. Something in the way he spoke told Sam that his friends had something to do with his capture. He mentioned the town where he was taken, which was not too far from where Sam had been taken either. This, more than anything, was reassuring.

Dean would come soon.

Sam told Stiles about his brother and he discovered that Stiles had lost his mom to Cancer when he was nine and his father to a heart attack just the year before.

It would be the perfect opening to tell the kid about his own family tragedies, but he doesn't.

* * *

 

Dean arrives before the next meal, blood smeared across his forehead and dripping from the sharpened edge of the machete, a battered rifle bearing their last name strapped across his back.

From the first muffled thud over their head, Sam knew he had arrived. With a sigh, he sinks back against the bars of the cell and allows a smile.

"What's going on?" Stiles wonders aloud.

"Dean." Sam says smugly.

 

* * *

 

"Should have known you would be resting, while I did all the work Sammy." His brother says wryly. The relief in his eyes tell a different story though, as he skims Sam's form.

"Kind of locked in, Dean." Sam gestures to the cage door and hates how weak he sounds, as if every tremor in his voice deducts an inch from his height and he feels as small as the child who once believed in Santa Claus.

Dean raises the machete and slashes the lock from the cage door on Sam's cell, then walks to adjacent cage to do the same.

Not as tall as Sam, the younger man emerges from the cell easily and Sam feels just a little graceless as he stoops out. Both men, however, place their hands on the backs of their hips and arch their back in a stretch. The movement makes Sam a little dizzy and he stumbles. Dean is quick to steady him and Sam smiles shakily.

"What took you so long?" he means for the words to be a joke but his brother's face _crumples_ as he pulls him roughly into his arms with a choked apology.

For a moment, Sam sinks into the embrace; it was rare to get this level of emotion from Dean and he selfishly soaks up the attention.

The clatter of heavy boots on the floor above though, pull the brothers apart.

"You okay?" Dean asks apologetically. "We gotta…" his eyes skitter upward and Sam reassures him.

"I'm good, man."

Dean turns to Stiles, all business.

"Try to keep up. If more arrive, you need to hold your own. If I have to choose between you or him," he nods toward Sam, "it's no contest."

"Dean…" Sam chides and Dean tightens his grasp on the machete.

"I mean it Sammy."

He really does.

They go up the stairs.

* * *

 

Sam blinks at the brightness of the sunlight, a painful contradiction to the dimness of the basement. The rooms above the basement were large and not as shabby as he expected. The furniture was old but well maintained as were the appliances in the kitchen. Sam feels a little silly, but he thought he would find home in similar to the Benders' but he didn't.

They step outside and he sees that his prision was just an ordinary farmhouse, with faded gingham curtains and a wrap around porch.

* * *

 

The Impala smells like home. Dean pulls an old towel from the backseat and wipes the blood from his face. While Stiles crawls into the back seat, Sam slides into the front seat with a weary sigh and reaches out to pat the dash gratefully. He _feels_ the smug glance Dean shoots his way.

"Shut up." He slurs as he relaxes back into the seat as Dean walks around to the drive's side.

Dean turns the key in the ignition and the impala purrs, the sound is like a lullaby to the youngest Winchester.

"See, Baby, I told you he loves you." Dean coos as Sam slips into a dreamless sleep.

When Sam wakes, Dean is pulling into a diner on the outskirts of Carson City, where Sam and Stiles had been held captive. In the back Stiles stirs and straightens; Sam looks at his brother with an raised eyebrow and Dean shrugs.

"Not far. We have only been driving for half an hour." His voice is rough and he clears his throat apologetically. "Thought you might want to eat, then we can crash." He waves a hand toward a flashing neon sign across the street that advertises cable tv and hourly rates.

As hungry as he is, the lure of a bed, no matter how questionable its history is irresistible.

"Can we get the food to go?" Sam asks the question but Stiles hums in agreement. Clearly the other man finds the appeal of a bed greater than food as well.

"Stay here." Dean slides of the car and sprints into the diner. Through the large plate glass window, Sam watches wearily as he speaks briefly to girl at the counter inside, presses a few bills into her hand then is in the car within moments.

"I'm already booked into the room," Dean explains. "I'll get you settled and then run back for the food."

Dean doesn't say it, but _settled_ also implies some form of clean-up. Each cell had contained a covered bucket and though they tried to take care of business with as much dignity as possible , the lack of amenities made washing up afterward impossible.

There aren't words to describe how filthy Sam feels or the stench that must surround him and Stiles.

He is too tired to care.

* * *

 

They rest up for two days ( _six_ meals), Sam and Stiles asleep on different beds while Dean obsessively checks the salt and cleans his guns. When Stiles wakes, he takes in the assortment of well-used cloths, gun oils and tools, he makes no comment, just stumbles into the bathroom to relieve himself and then back into the bed furthest from the door.

Stiles doesn't ask about his clothes when they disappear, just accepts the pair of jeans, t-shirt and button up over shirt without comment. The first time Sam sees the kid dressed, he is a little surprised at how he looks like he belongs. With his buzzed head of hair, just a few shades darker than Dean's, and his delicate features, the kid looks like a younger Winchester.

On the morning of the third day, Sam finds Dean at the computer checking out routes to Cal Tech; Sam doesn't like it, he feels responsible for the kid somehow, but he agrees that the kid has been exposed to their life long enough.

With a lifetime of practice, they have their bags packed and stored in the car in the few minutes Stiles spends in the shower and getting dressed.

* * *

 

On the drive to Pasadena to take Stiles back to college, they happen upon a job in a small town east of Citrus Heights. when they pass a sign (Welcome to Gloverdale, Birthplace of Major League Baseball Player Tim Jenkins, population 1,102), Sam and Dean share a look. Sam opens the laptop and runs a quick search, something they do to break the monotony on the road.

"Major League player for the Braves from 1997-1999, impressive batting average and career cut short by a snapped ankle just before they went to the world series." Dean winces sympathetically. "Says here that Tim now coaches his hometown high school team."

Dean hums in a half hearted attempt to be interested, Stiles looks out of the backseat window and says nothing.

* * *

 

They are at a gas station; Dean is in the bathroom while Sam and Stiles are inside the store, picking up a few snacks for the last part of the drive.

Sam doesn't pick up on it at first, but he feels Stiles stiffen in alarm beside him. When Sam looks over, he sees the kid purposefully scanning the interior of the store, an expression that he has seen on Dean more times than he can count. This look is a quick survey of exits, threats, potential victims and weapons.

Casually, Sam inventories the room, searching for the threat that alarmed the kid. He finds in the mirror up in the corner of the ceiling- the kind of mirrors that stores used to keep eyes on the merchandise and to discourage potential shoplifters - and sees the tell-tale flash of silver eyes.

"Hey Sam, look at that!" Stiles' voice is full of excitement and innocence as he slaps the back of his hand against Sam's arm, such a change from the quiet man with whom he has shared a room with over the last week, that Sam turns in surprise. "Jesus!" he continues in wonder and walks over to a barrel as he looks over his shoulder at the man behind the counter. "Are these _really_ signed by Tim Jenkins?"

Reverently, he runs his fingers over the shaped wood of the bats until he selects one and tests its weight. Dean walks into the room and Stiles lights up.

"Hey Dean! Look at this. Signed by Tim Jenkins himself." Then Stiles rattles of the players' stats like any overexcited fan boy.

Dean looks at Sam, who keeps his face impassive, but glances meaningfully at the mirror. Dean selects a bat for himself, testing the weight and holding the handle of the bat with one hand and pointing the bat in a pose reminiscent of Babe Ruth declaring a challenge to the pitcher.

"Home Run." Dean declares easily. A few of the other tourists walking around the mid-sized gas station smile as Dean swings the bat in slow motion and clicks his tongue to imitate the sound of the bat connecting with the ball.

"…and the crowd goes wild…it is a home run folks!" Stiles follows up, adding in sound effects of a cheering crowd.

"I'm going to buy one." Stiles announces. "What about you guys?"

"Nah, I'm good." Dean grins, but his eyes track a few of the people as the line at the register shortens. Stiles nods and returns to Sam's side. When they reach the register, Stiles pulls out his wallet and his credit card but Sam tells him to put it away.

"I got this, man." He throws two twenties on the counter and they leave.

They walk over to the Impala and Sam passes out a few colas; Dean opens the door of the Impala and slides the key in the ignition, but does not turn it.

Stiles and Sam lean back against the Impala and watch the front of the store.

"Don't know what they were, but I counted two." Stiles gestures toward the store with his cola and takes a sip.

"What do you mean, "what they were"?" Dean asks slow.

Stiles puts his cola on the gravel covered ground and picks up his bat to give it a thorough inspection.

"Not human. Could be Fey, but I have never seen a Fey with eyes like that; not a werewolf either." Stiles curls his lip and there is a bitter sadness in his eyes along with something else that Sam can't name.

The two shifters walk out of the store and climb into a battered orange Datsun. Without a word, the trio get into the Impala and Dean pulls out of the parking lot, heading in the same direction. Sam twists in the front seat until he can see Stiles.

"What do you know about werewolves?" he asks, unable to keep the curiosity from his voice. Beside him, Dean flexes his fingers around the steering wheel.

The teen looks out the window, hands sliding rhythmically over the curve of the bat.

"I know enough." 

 


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Funny how no one can ever really recognize a good thing until hindsight hits.

**THEN**

When the Roadhouse burns down, she considers rebuilding, but it just seems like replacing one baby with another. Instead, she, Jo and Ash salvage their few remaining belongings, pack up the old Winnebago and head north.

The make it as far as Sioux Falls – mainly because Bobby threatens to hunt her down and shoot her if she dares to leave.

For the next six months, the trio slowly move past the shock of losing their home and livelihood; Ash forces Bobby into the twenty-first century by modernizing the semi-retired hunter's salvage business and manages the twelve different phone lines to provide cover for hunters out in the field while Jo partners with Ellen to do a few jobs close to home.

Being on the road with her daughter brings forth memories of the hunts she had with Bill early in their marriage and she knows Jo enjoys hearing the stories. Still, though she does not say a word to Jo, she misses the Roadhouse and thinks she does a good job of hiding it, until one day Jo takes a small job and partners with Garth, both of them leaving in the early hours of the morning. Ellen wakes to find a page from the classified's pinned to her bedroom door with a switchblade and one help wanted ad circled in pink highlighter.

"Bar Manager Needed"

A few choice words describe her headstrong daughter as Ellen mutters under her breath while she rummages through her dresser drawers. However, she can't deny the tiny spark of excitement she feels as she grabs the keys to the Lincoln Continental she calls Proud Mary and makes the seven minute drive down the highway to her interview.

With her experience, the owner hires her on the spot and Ellen is back in the world of scuffed wooden floors, stale, smoky rooms and the smell of draft beer.

She is in heaven.

Two years later, the owner, Roy Owens, offers to sell her the bar. She thinks long and hard and a few months later, she signs the papers. The loss of the Roadhouse still hurts and she can't bear to give the bar the same name but she still wants carry a piece of her history with her.

The next day, she takes down the old, hand-painted "Roy's Tavern" sign and replaces it with a brand new blue neon sign and names the bar "Deuce". Most of the locals think it's a poker reference, but as word spreads through the hunter community she knows they realize what the name means and business gets a lot more steady.

Like the Roadhouse, Deuce has living quarters attached. Roy clears out his belongings a few months before the sale was final, content to let Ellen manage the bar while he prepares to move to Pembroke Pines in southern Florida, closer to his daughter and grandson. In the interim, while she gets loans approved, she, Ash, Jo and Bobby spend every spare minute repainting walls and updating the rooms above the bar.

Roy had once told her that his great-grandfather had first opened the bar in the mid-thirties and rented out the rooms above the bar to travelers. In total, the upstairs quarters include six bedrooms, two full baths, a common room and a fair sized kitchen.

On craigslist, she finds good deals on appliances and the equipment to strip and polish the hardwood floors they had discovered when they pulled up the carpet. She is no Martha Stewart, but Ellen reckons they do a damn fine job of bringing the living quarters into the twenty first century.

* * *

They say bad things come in threes but Ellen reckons that the same adage holds for good things.

In the same week, she opens Deuce, moves into her new home and meets Stiles Stillinski.

Funny, how no one can ever really recognize a _good thing_ until hindsight hits.

* * *

Deuce is located a few miles outside of Sioux Falls, coincidentally on the same highway as Singer Salvage, so when the black Imapla rolls by heading east on the highway, Ellen is certain it is the Winchester's.

She's grateful that Jo is on a job with Garth, as her only daughter still carries a (poorly hidden) torch for the oldest Winchester boy. Though he flirts with her many times, she knows her daughter only rejected Dean in an attempt to stand out from the crowd of willing women that fell into his bed like dominoes. Eventually, though, Dean's attentions turn from flirtatious to brotherly teasing, much to Jo's consternation.

No matter how many times Ellen tries to discourage her daughter, she knows it is a losing battle. Joanna-Beth is as stubborn as her mother and as tenacious as her father had been. When the Impala rolls by she feels a mix of emotions- reluctant affection, irritation and a hope that Dean might put his mechanic skills to use on Proud Mary. She's had the gas-guzzling car for just under two years and hates asking on Bobby to do repairs no matter how often he insists it is no imposition.

She feels no such reluctance for imposing on Dean though.

She hollars to Ash, who sits cross legged on the pool table wearing a headset and fingers flying on his laptop key board, grabs the keys to Mary and heads out the back door.

* * *

Less than seven minutes later, she turns into the gravel drive of Singer Salvage just as the air conditioning in Mary has kicks in, the air in car slowly changing from blowing muggy and warm to a temperature that could barely be labeled as tepid. She adds it to the mental list of "Things Dean Will Check".

The boy has gotten enough free beer and put more than a few gray hairs on Ellen's head, that she feels no guilt.

Bobby must have had company before the Winchester's pulled in, she recognizes the beaten two-toned Ford pick-up as belonging to Rich Stampley and groans aloud when she parks Mary beside it. Rich used to be a pleasant person to be around, but a few years ago he lost his partner, Shell Granger, and every hunter in a thousand mile radius had been treated to a loud, drunken tirade on how the Winchesters are to blame.

She slams the door, muttering under her breath when two shots ring out and she _runs_ because she only knew two men who were a faster draw than Rich Stampley and neither of them were called Winchester. She races around the side of the house and is shocked to see Sam crumpled on the grass, pale, still and _bleeding_ , with Dean, unmindful of the seeping wound on his thigh scooting across the grass to his brother.

"Sammy? Jesus Sammy…" he whispers, uncaring of the shouting match that is going on between Bobby, who has a mare's leg aimed at Rich, who in turn has his thirty two caliber aimed at Dean's head, hand steadily tracking the wounded man as he scoots across the grass toward his brother.

Her heart thundering with worry and adrenalin as she tries to keep an even tone, she has to speak up to talk over Rich's rant about demon gates, the anti-Christ and a litany of other crimes against the Winchesters.

"Put the gun down Rich," she begins, not liking the gray pallor of Bobby's face. The older man is leaning against the side of the house like it is the only thing holding him up and her heart leaps into her throat when she sees hunter's hand _tremble_.

She has known Bobby singer since she married Bill at the tender age of seventeen and she had never, not once, seen his gun hand as anything other than steady. Dean, on the ground, pulls off his faded Metallica t-shirt and is using it to try to stop the steady flow of blood coming from Sam.

She takes a step toward Rich and three things happen at once.

A blurred figure sprints out from the cluster of trees at Rich's back while Rich turns away from Bobby and aims his gun toward Ellen. The figure strikes a blunt object at the back of his knee as the thirty-two and mare's leg discharge at the same time.

Though he aims for her head, the impact of a blunt object to his knee throws off his aim so his shot hits her shoulder instead and she yells a curse at the searing pain and tears fill her eyes.

 _You will not cry Ellen Harvell_ she scolds and hisses another string of curse words that would have made her daddy blush.

Rich is down on one knee, trying to reach for the gun without losing his balance still ranting about Sam and Dean when the figure whirls around and brings the blunt weapon down on the struggling hunter's wrist. From the impact, Rich falls backward. The figure, a young man about the same age as her daughter, stands over Rich with one foot planted on the prone hunter's belly.

Rich eyes the gun, while he cradles his injured wrist toward his chest but flinches when the young man adjusts his stance in a pose that mimics that of a baseball player with a bat. With his free hand, the stranger pulls out a phone and uses his thumb to press a few numbers.

He raises the phone to his ear and his next words are clear, concise and with a slight edge that she cannot identify.

"I need a code three at Singer Salvage yard off county road sixty nine. We had an incident with a two-forty-five and request an eleven-forty-one. Advise a code three."

Ellen presses a hand to her shoulder and tries to pretend that she doesn't see black spots dancing before her eyes because it hurts like a son-of-a-bitch. She looks away from the stranger and focuses on Dean, who is hasn't moved an inch from his brother's side, his voice hoarse, uttering an endless string of words, alternating between pleas and threats if Sam doesn't "hang on dammit, you hear me you little bitch, just hang on."

She is aware, vaguely, of the stranger, calmly answering questions using codes and terminology not normally hear outside of cop shows or police scanner.

* * *

Sam regains consciousness just as the police sirens are first heard, his slurring speech easily understood by Dean, who exhales heavily and answers Sam's half-hearted questions with a choked voice. Rich twitches and the stranger tenses, fingers fanning briefly before tightening its grip around the neck of the wooden bat.

By this time, Ellen has moved the twenty or so feet that bring her to Bobby, growing steadily alarmed by both his pallor and hitched breaths.

Dean continues to talk to his brother, tone soothing as a mother with a newborn babe.

* * *

Since the salvage yard is located outside of the city limits, it is the county sheriff that arrives just ahead of the ambulance. Beth Chappell opens the door of her car and exits, eyes flitting and assessing the situation even as she pulls the gun from her holster. While she isn't a regular customer at Deuce, the sheriff isn't a stranger either; she greets Ellen and Bobby by name, takes in Sam's condition and then focuses on the stranger.

"I see you got some trouble here, Bobby" she calls and Bobby grunts softly in return. The ambulance pulls up and Beth points to Sam and the two of the three paramedics efficiently drag a gurney to the injured man. The third paramedic exits from the passenger side of the vehicle and Beth points at Bobby.

Old crotchety bastard that he is, Bobby frowns and starts to shake his head.

"I ain't the one needin' medical attention," he begins but Ellen scowls.

"You shut up, you old goat and let this man check you over." Bobby looks at her bleeding shoulder and juts his chin out.

"I ain't the one bleeding," he begins, a slight edge to his voice and he looks so pale, she starts to become genuinely afraid.

"Fine," she sees the flair of triumph in his eyes and continues, "you first, then they can take a look."

She uses the same tone she'd used with Bill when he was being a stubborn ass and more than a few times with Jo when that girl decided she tried to push boundaries after her father had died.

Bobby gives another grunt, which in grizzled hunter language was as good as permission.

Beth still holds her gun loosely at her side. The stranger gives her a run down on what happened from the time when the Winchester's arrived right up to when he took the shooter down, his language once again clear, concise and full of terms that no one outside of the criminology field use. The sheriff nods, lays a booted foot near the handle of the discarded gun and kicks it off to the side, all while keeping her body facing Rich and the stranger.

* * *

Beth has been sheriff in Sioux Falls long enough to know that sometimes, it was best to look the other way (or, at least sideways) when it came to _anything_ that involved Robert Singer. She knew enough about his life to know that it was all she really cared to know. There are things, she suspects, that result in a better night's sleep if they remained unknown.

Still, there are paramedics around and it was more difficult to ignore due process when there were witnesses about. She holsters her weapon and pulls out the cuffs asks the kid to stand to the side while she cuffs the injured man on the ground just as Bryce, her deputy, arrives on scene.

Luckily, the dark-haired deputy asks few questions, merely hauling the perp into the backseat while the man groans.

* * *

Ellen is surprised when the stranger goes willingly in the Sheriff's car. A few hours later, while Dean is at the hospital with Sam, it is Ellen who drives to the station to bring the kid back to Deuce.

Over the years, Ellen has been slapped with more labels than a Walmart, often along the lines of "hard-nosed" and "bitch". Other than Ash or Jo, people rarely get to see her softer, nurturing side.

From the beginning, Stiles is different. Like a lost puzzle piece that she did not know was missing, he just fit.

* * *

**Now**

There is a darkness that Sam sees in Stiles that he finds comforting, rather than disturbing. It is selfish and, on some level, he can compare himself to a school yard bully who has such low self-esteem that he can only feel better if he is making someone else miserable. Dean would argue that it was an unfair comparison but Sam isn't so sure; Dean has always held the younger Winchester with a higher regard than Sam feels is warranted.

Three years from when the first met, Stiles remains something of an enigma to Winchester brothers, though others would laugh at the idea. There is so much about his past that he lays out for the world to see that it would be difficult for most outsiders to pick out the gaps and, if someone happened to ask a question that Stiles did not want to answer, he (or she) would be so adroitly redirected that they hardly ever realized their question remained unanswered.

Though it had been two years since Stiles had stopped riding along on hunts with them, Sam and Dean still make a point to take a detour through Sioux Falls every two to three months. If they go any longer, the daily phone calls start and Stiles can be a persistent mother hen when he puts his mind to it.

A swamp monster just southwest of Lake Charles, Louisiana keeps them out of cell phone coverage a few days longer than anticipated and, when their cell phones are recharged, they make note of the six missed calls.

Like guilty teenagers caught sneaking out, they each fire off a quick text promising a phone call after they catch a good night's sleep. Eight hours later, they are back on the road, Dean at the wheel while Sam holds the cell to his brother's ear and smirks as Stiles reams him out for forgetting to bring along the charged burner phones with them into the swamp, promising retribution for making him worry.

Dean rolls his eyes, but Sam thinks he detects a nervous tick in his older brother's left eyebrow. In the past, Stiles has proven to be quite adept at retaliation, if he wants retribution, he will take it and often in the most surprising of ways.

Dean pouts and stalls for an extra day in Kansas City, his excuse being that the Impala needs a tune up but Sam knows it is just to prove that Stiles does not call the shots. It is Sam that makes the call to Deuce and Ash agrees to relay the message to Stiles. Their phones that night are suspiciously silent. At various points during the evening, both brother's check for missed calls and texts, slightly uneasy when they find none.

It is just shy of ten on a Wednesday evening, when the Impala pulls into the crowded parking lot of Deuce and Dean mutters under his breath as he navigates the haphazard parking practiced by the salon's patrons. While no one would ever dream to accuse them of dragging their feet, their stride is somewhat slower than usual when they approach the entry to the bar.

A few heads nod in recognition when they walk in, but the brother's don't give more than a passing nod, their eyes warily fixed on the individual at the bar. To give them credit, they don't falter in their stride when they approach the bar. Tension, however, drains from them when the young man behind the bar gives them a wide, friendly smile of greeting.

"Sam! Dean! You guys made it." On the narrow side edge of the mahogany bar, there are two empty stools and they slide into the seats with a grateful sigh, while Stiles gestures toward the glass beer cooler behind him. At their nod, he pulls two frosty beer glasses and slides them smoothly down the bartop followed by two bottleneck beers.

They hardly look at the beer as they make small talk, just pour and answer Stiles' questions about the hunt. However, when they take their first gulp of the icy beer they widen their eyes and pick up the beer bottle to look at what they just drank.

It isn't Coors Crafted, that's for damn sure.

Dean squints and reads the label a second time, mouthing the words "strawberry", "light" and "ale" with almost comical disbelief. Just as his brother opens his mouth, Sam looks up and catches the barely restrained smirk on Jo Harvell's face.

"Hey, Stiles," Dean begins, his trademark smirk on his face and Sam tugs ineffectually at the sleeve of the older Winchester's arm in order to get his attention.

"Dean." He hisses but his brother just shakes his arm away.

"Yeah, Dean? What's up, buddy?" Stiles looks at Dean, radiating such innocence that Sam thinks Dean would see right through him, but Dean chuckles. Jo shakes her head in sympathy and Sam tries not to facepalm as his brother continues.

"Uhh…you might want to get your eyes checked, dude." Dean waggles the beer bottle and gives a little laugh. "You gave us light beer by mistake."

Stiles had been polishing glasses and he flips the damp towel over his shoulder while he leans forward to peer at Dean's bottle. Dean shoots Sam a smug look, but his expression quickly changes to quizzical when Sam _actually_ face palms and gives a slight groan.

"Well, would you look at that, I did give you light beer!" Stiles grins and leans forward to slap Dean on the back then pulls back, an expectant look on his face.

Dean leans back, a frown on his face.

"You don't expect me to drink it, do you?" Dean asks and Sam (face still firmly planted in his palm) shakes his head.

"Drink the beer, Dean." he warns his brother, but either his words are too muffled or his brother chooses to ignore him (Sam thinks it is the latter, because Dean is a stubborn ass).

Stiles nods.

"Yep." He leans forward again. "Every. Last. Strawberry-Flavored. Drop."

Dean raises the beer to his lips and scrunches up his nose as he takes a teeny-tiny sip. Sam tries not to watch. Dean shakes his head and puts the beer down.

"Nope. Can't do it."

Stiles raises an eyebrow in return then turns and walks away. From behind them, Ellen tutts a few times and tells them that "you really should have drunk the beer boys."

Stiles is out from behind the bar and is approaching the makeshift stage, flipping on a few switches that set colored-lights spinning about the stage. On his way, he grabs a microphone and starts to speak into it.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I want you to…" he brings his hands together and nods encouragement for the crowd to do the same "put your hands together and give it up for the vocal stylin's of the Winchester Brothers."

The crowd begins to clap, cat-call and cheer and both brother's try to gauge the likelihood of making a clean escape when Ellen leaned between the both of them.

"You are getting off easy, boys. I suggest you take your punishment like real men and with all the good grace you can muster. And you had better make it a good show, boys. I don't know what the first song he picked out for you is, but I will tell you that if he makes you perform a second song, it is going to be Meatloaf's 'Paradise By The Dashboard Light' which, to my recollection, is over eight minutes long."

Knowing when they were beat, the brother's rose and walk toward the stage while the crowd lets out a cheer of cat-calls, wolf whistles and general good natured laughter.

Dean plucks the mic from Stiles and Jo, with a sly toothy grin, brings Sam a spare. To the side of the stage, neon pink words appeared on a wide screen and the crowd cheers in recognition. In unison, the Winchesters raise their mics and begin to sing.

_"A long, long time ago, I can still remember how that music used to make me smile…"_

By the end of Miss American Pie, they had the crowd on their feet, stamping, clapping and singing along. When they get back to the bar, two chilled bottles of Coors Crafted were waiting for them.

Dean foolishly thinks all is forgiven.

The next morning, Ellen slaps him on the back of his head then recounts how worried Stiles had been about them when he didn't hear back from them the first time he called them in Louisiana. Jo changes Dean's ring tone to sing the "Oscar Meyer" theme song which announces to all and sundry that he'd "love to be an Oscar Meyer Weiner" and then calls him constantly when is out and about in town; Ash installs GPS on their phones.

But it is Stiles' ultimate revenge that Dean does not discover until he walks into his favorite Sioux Falls diner for lunch. He orders a Bacon Double Cheeseburger with a side of cheesy fries and instead is brought a hearty Spinach salad with a plain veggie burger served with a Strawberry Pale Ale. Sam gets the same treatment, but since he is twelve year old hippie girl on the inside he does not complain.

Over the next four days, during their stay in Sioux Falls, Dean discovers that Stiles' influence stretches across three towns and, no matter the time of day or what he orders, Dean is brought the same meal. Each time, he grumbles under his breath but he eats the meal all the same.

* * *

On their last night, a red-haired woman walks into the bar and, for the first time since he started at Deuce, Stiles walks out the back door in the middle of a shift.

He is not seen for two days. The red-head is patient though. From the moment the bar opens, she waltzes through the doors like she belongs, takes a seat in a corner table, angles her chair so she has a view of the bar and sets up a laptop computer.

When Stiles returns, he looks like he hasn't slept more than an hour but looks determined as he approaches the woman. The conversation is brief, pitched too low for any eavesdroppers (of which there were a few about) to overhear more than the occasional word but the more Stiles shakes his head, the faster the woman tries to talk.

In the end, Stiles takes a step back and his voice rings out loud and cold in the near empty salon.

"But I don't want to see _them_."

Two spots of red appear on the woman's face and Ellen suspects that it is not often that the woman hears the word "No." and, as the woman packs up her few belongings and leaves.

Ash bets Jo twenty dollars that the woman will be back.


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you for all of the alerts and reviews, especially on A03!

**There is no room in their lives for someone like Stiles, someone with strong ties to family and friends.**

 

**THEN**

It is two days later than he originally planned, thanks to the Citrus Grove shifters, when Dean first sees the signs for Cal Tech; beside him, on the bench seat, Sam shifts restlessly. It's just like his brother, Dean thinks, to get attached so quickly; Dean might have been the one to integrate into well-formed cliques during their numerous stints at various schools across the country, but Sammy was always the one who looked longingly backward when they left, with hastily scribbled addresses clutched in his pudgy little hands and solemn promises to "keep in touch".

When they arrive at the campus, the sky is a sweeping swirl of pinks and oranges and the sun is low on the horizon. The car idles for a moment; Dean allows a smug smile when a few of the wandering student body cast an appreciate eye over the car's sleek form.

With a quick twist, he cuts the motor and three doors of the car open at once. The trio walk around back of the vehicle and Dean unlocks the trunk and pulls out Stiles' bag, or at least the old, spare duffle that Sam and Dean kept on hand and currently held the spare change of clothes purchased for Stiles at thrift store near Kansas City.

The dorm is a narrow, four-story brick building that runs in the shape of an upside down "U" with a tidy courtyard in the middle. A few students lounge upon the freshly cut grass and away from the concrete walkway. Two students raise a hand in recognition to Stiles, but the younger man hardly acknowledges them. His shoulders and jaw are tense, his eyes dart side to side as if he was seeking or seeking to avoid someone.

It's rare that the Winchester's are so closely attuned to someone they hardly know, but the brothers pick up on the non-verbal cue; Dean can practically feel Sammy raise his alert level while Dean thinks of his Barretta, which he left in the glove box of the Impala.

With a forefinger, Stiles presses a short sequence of numbers to open the front door and the younger man leads the way through the double French doors. Once inside, the doors close with a soft, electronic snick behind them. Ahead, in the middle of the entryway, a wide staircase with a royal blue runner, leads upward but Stiles steps to the right side and walks down the corridor.

When he stops midway down the hallway, Dean assumes they have reached his apartment, but instead of unlocking the door, Stiles just stares at the door, a frown on his face. The brothers share a significant look, then a non-verbal "rock, paper, scissors" is played out (Sam rolls his eyes when Dean throws scissors and throws his brother a crooked smile when he throws rock) and Dean clears his throat.

"Uhhh…Stiles? Are you okay, man?"

"Keys. I don't have them. I must have lost them when –" the rest goes unspoken but Dean gets the younger man's meaning. _When he got taken._ Immediately, his thoughts turn away from the college student's abduction and toward his brother's disappearance. His hands clench into tight fists ( _What took you so long?)_ , a tight knot forms deep in his throat and he thinks he should say something (anything) but he draws a blank.

"Stiles?" It's Sam who lays a large hand on the younger man's shoulder and with his other hand pulls the small leather case from his back pocket. "If you want, I could …" he gives the case a slight shake "pick the lock for you."

Stiles nods and steps back while the hunter selects two small tools and inserts them into the lock. It takes time a little time, but Sam patiently manipulates the tools until the tumblers fall into place.

The apartment is small; the door opens immediately into a common area. With a sigh, Stiles walks into the room, the Winchesters not far behind.

Dean has never had any problem snooping, so while Sam hangs back near the entryway, Dean drops the duffel and wanders through the small common area. He tilts his head to read the spines of books (one thick chemistry text is sandwiched between two paperback fantasy books rest atop a side table near the couch; a book shelf near a triple-paned window is overflowing with an assortment of books that are as varied in content as they are in size), openly stares at a few of the photos that decorate the wall.

The photos chronicle the "normal" life that Sam always craved, starting first with a framed family photo of a younger, gap-toothed Stiles between a couple that could only be his parents and followed by more photos depicting a progressively older Stiles with a series of friends, most of whom were captured wearing sunglasses.

Unable to hold back his curiosity, Sam joins him and they look at the collection of photos that show Stiles as a Boy Scout with a dark haired boy his age and later a series of photos show the same dark haired boy playing a sport ("Lacrosse" Sam supplies at Dean's silent query) and one with Stiles, arms raised in victory and propped up on the teams shoulders. There were more, but Stiles comes back into the room.

They shake hands, Dean passes over a paper with a list of their cell phone numbers and they promise to keep in touch.

As they walk out of the building, Sam wonder's aloud if they will ever see Stiles again.

"No telling, Sammy." Dean answers but privately he thinks they won't. There is no room in their life for people like Stiles, people with strong ties to family and friends.

**NOW**

Dean tries to look nonchalant as he brushes the gelatinous fluid from his clothes, but the mucus is a thick, dark yellow and has an odor that he is sure will never wash off. His only consolation is that Sam has twice the amount of goo splattered about his body, most of which drips in thin, slimy lines from his long hair.

He snickers and full out gives a shout of laughter when Sam shoots a bitchface his way

Long, sticky strands dangle from the corner of the ceiling where the bulbous egg sack had hung until Dean shot it full of the Winchester version of the holy trinity – iron bullets filled with a mix of salt dissolved in holy water and used when the usual mix proved ineffective – and then…things went blooey then gooey.

The memory keeps the smirk on Dean's face – for once his slightly ( _slightly)_ shorter stature works in his favor since Gigantor's height put him closer to the exploding sack.

"Laugh it up, fuzzball." Sam mutters as he swipes globs of goo from his head and flicks his fingers toward the ground.

"Awww Sammy, don't pout." Dean chuckles as he pops the trunk to the Impala and grabs the worn towel that is folded atop the false bottom and tosses it toward Sam.

Sam gets his revenge though.

Later, after indulging in a much needed Grand Slam at the Denny's in the next town over, Dean flirts with the waitress and (shockingly) gets a lukewarm response. It isn't until they bunk down for the night that Dean goes into the motel bathroom to brush his teeth. When he looks in the mirror, his eyes go wide as he stares at the small glob of yellow goo on the corner of his left nostril.

"Son of a bitch!" he exclaims.

From the next room, his brother starts to laugh.

It's only two weeks since they had last stayed at Deuce, but a phone call from Jo puts a halt to their plan to head east to assist an elderly hunter in an Appalachian retirement home who swears that his fellow retirees are being replaced with ghouls.

"It's Stiles," she says to Sam.

Five minutes later, Dean is on the phone with Chet Bradley, arranging for him to head to Appalachia for them while Sam loads the weapons, ammo, clothes and the rest of their gear into the Impala.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts?


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She decides she doesn't like him, not one bit.

** THEN **

Jo misses the call from Ash when she and Garth are on a hunt in Omaha, checking out a pattern they suspect might point to a nest of vampires. Luckily, the nest was small, only three imprudent vampires who model themselves after characters in an Anne Rice novel (long, buffed nails; loose, old-fashioned linen shirts; mournful expressions and “oh, woe is my (un)life”).

They are back in the motel, salt lines in place. Garth is in the shower, cheerfully singing off key (he used to alternate between Bel Biv Devoe, The Police and other songs that he referred to as “the music of my childhood”. Jo has made it her mission to bring the man into the twenty-first century and nods in satisfaction when she thinks she hears him sing the words to Pittbull’s “Timber”.)

When Garth finishes, they switch places. In the bathroom doorway they debate the merits of Indian versus Italian for dinner as she juggles a clean set of clothing and her Ipod while Garth clutches the corners of the towel wrapped around his waist. It’s been awhile since she has vindaloo or scampi, so tells him she could go for either one.

Adele sets fire to the rain as she strips and steps into the shower. The tepid temperature is as common as any other budget motel (she only ever gets a hot shower when they stay at Deuce). She has a fleeting image of her room at the Sioux Falls saloon, thinks about how she should have called her mom over a week ago, but soon enough she is already thinking ahead to the next hunt.

The vindaloo smells spicy and delicious and Jo hums in appreciation as she walks out the bathroom. Her phone, set to “silent” when they were closing on the vamps, lights up and she catches sight of it flickering from the corner of her eye.

Curious about the call, she picks up the phone and sees a missed called from Ash. The vinaloo can wait a few more minutes, she decides, as she calls him back.

Less than four minutes later, she is grateful when Garth doesn’t protest as she snatches his keys to the platinum Ford Ranger from the top of the motel dresser, thoughts of eating forgotten in their hasty exit.

* * *

 

The ride back to Sioux Falls is long and silent; they only stop to refuel and switch places then Jo dozes restlessly in the passenger seat, waking every quarter hour, anxious about her mother and willing the Ranger to break the laws of physics along with the sound barrier.

( _Bad daughter_. The self-reprimand circles around in her head, an endless repetition that cements her fear that, had she been able to stay in Sioux Falls and help out around Deuce, her mom would be safe.)

She is awake, though, when they drive across the gravel parking lot, the light from the rising sun not yet strong enough to chase away the shadows surrounding the large building. Before the large Ford can come to a complete stop, she grips the frame of the open door, slingshots out of her seat and sprints toward Deuce’s doors.

The interior of the saloon is dusky; the overhead lights off, but the faint glow from the coolers behind the bar counter provide enough light for her to make her way across the wooden floor. She hardly notices the echo of her cowboy boots make across the scuffed floor, all of her attention focused on getting to her mother.

A slight clatter from the back stairs pulls her attention and she quickens her pace.

 _It would be just like Mama,_ she thinks as she climbs the narrow stairway, visions of her wounded mom trying to brew herself a cup of that acidic sludge she likes to call coffee dancing before her eyes. Already, a chastisement forms on her lips as she reaches the landing, words spilling out as she makes a sharp turn to the kitchen and a frown furrowing her brow.

(There is a larger kitchen downstairs, but Mama always told her that cooking in the upstairs kitchen makes her feel like she lives in a home, as opposed to living at work.)

“Mama,” she does not try to mask her exasperated tone, “I _know_ you aren’t trying to make yourself-”

Her words stop as she halts in the open doorway of the kitchen and catches sight of an unfamiliar face and messy tufts of sable-brown hair, which stand out in varying directions, looking over his shoulder toward her.

“You must be Jo.” Eyes still on her, he reaches up and pulls down the can of ground coffee beans without looking and she feels a burst of irritation. Who is this guy? And why did he look so damn comfortable in her mother’s kitchen?

“I’m Stiles.” He continued easily. “I was just-“

“Where’s Mama?” she knows it’s rude to cut him off, but she doesn’t care.

“She’s sleeping.” He looks away as he scoops the ground beans into a filter and then flips the lid closed. “Finally drifted off less than an hour ago. She fought against it though; your mother is one stubborn lady.”

She scowls at the fond chuckle that escapes his lips as he shakes his head, amusement warm in the whisky hue of his eyes.

“I’m going to go see her,” she says curtly. She steps backward but freezes when he reaches out toward her.

“Can it wait? Just for a bit? She put off rest for so long and she only just got to sleep. If she wakes and sees you, she’s going to want to get up and…”

“Are you seriously telling me that I can’t go see my own mother?" She shrugs off his hand and turns on her heel, furious at the gall of this stranger, " _Unbelievable_." 

At her mother’s bedroom door, she takes a steadying breath and cautiously opens the door.

In the few minutes since she has arrived at Deuce the sky has lightened further, however, since the bedroom window faces west, her mother is but a shadowy outline on the bed. As quietly as possible, she crosses the room and stands at the bedside.

A lump forms in her throat as she inspects the slumbering body, Ash’s phone call from earlier ringing in her ears. It pains her to remember that when Ash first called, her first thought was that something that had happened to Dean, rather than her mom.

_“Hey Jo.”_

_“Hey Ash – so glad you called. Do you have that information on that Vamp nest that was reported near Cleveland? Garth and I will-“_

_“Jo.”_

_“-head north in the morning–“_

_“JO.”_

_She paused because Ash had raised his voice. Ash never raised his voice._

_“Ash…what’s wrong?”_

_“Your mom didn’t want me to call; she didn’t want to worry you but…”_

_There was a silence and Jo felt her heart stop as she gripped the phone tightly._

_“Dean…is he…”_

_“Dean’s okay, Jo…he’s with Sam at the hospital but he’s fine.”_

_Jo exhaled slowly and closed her eyes in relief, then immediately felt guilty because if Sam was in the hospital then something bad must have happened._

_“God…Sam? What happened?”_

_“Rich Stampley shot them.”_

_“Je-sus.” She hissed the words._

_“Yeah, it was touch-and-go for a bit, but it looks like Sam will pull through. He is conscious and already making noises about checking out against medical advice. The sheriff showed up on the scene after your mother did and made an arrest. Rich is being charged with three counts of attempted murder.”_

_“Damn straight…guy’s gone crazy over the last few years – drinking and shooting his mouth off every chance he could get. Even Garth said that – wait….three counts?”_

_“Yeah. He clipped your mom in the shoulder but-“_

_“Moth-er fucker!” she hissed, the plastic of her phone crackling in her tight grip as she imagined wrapping her fingers around Rich’s neck._

_“She’s fine Jo. She didn’t want to make a fuss and told me not to call, but I thought you would want to know.”_

Rather than sleeping flat on her back, a stack of pillows placed behind her mother’s back keep her propped up. Her breathing is steady and Jo relaxes slightly, unconsciously changing her own breathing pattern to match her mother’s.

For the first time in fourteen hours, she feels some of the tension drain from her shoulders. Carefully, she steps backwards to make her way out of her mother’s room. One of the wooden floorboards creaks loudly as it takes her weight and Jo cringes when her mother’s eyes flutter open.

“Stiles? That you, hon?” her voice sounds hoarse and tired, but Jo tightens her lips in annoyance that her mother’s first thoughts would be about a stranger. ( _Serves you right Joanna-Beth,_ she chides herself, _you should have been here, with mama, not cavorting around the Midwest chasing Lestat-wannabies and urban myths come to life!_ ).

“It’s me, Mama.”

“Jo? What are you -? Dammit. I _told_ Ash not to bother you.”

“You are not a bother, Mama. Of course I came.” Tears well in her eyes and she rapidly blinks away the moisture. When did she give her mother the impression that she thought she was a bother?

(In the beginning, she had called her mother every other day; but, the deeper into the job she fell the easier it had been to make excuses, caught in the heady excitement of hunting. She thinks back to the last phone call with her mother and winces when she remembered how distracted she’d been, like speaking with her own mother was a chore to get through as quick as possible.)

There is a rustle of blankets and the bedside light is flicked on just in time for Jo to catch the grimace of discomfort flash across her mother’s face.

“No – Mama. You should sleep. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“Joanna-Beth,” her mother begins, sternly “you are never, nor will you ever be, a disturbance to me. Now, come sit” she pats the side of the bed with the hand of her uninjured arm, “and tell me what you have been up to lately.”

She should feel more guilt, she thinks as she kicks off her shoes and curls up next to her mother that she is keeping her mother awake but she _needs_ this reassurance that her mother is alive and safe.

A few minutes later, her eyes are fluttering closed and she hears the door open, the soft clattering of china.

“I made you something to drink.” The man (seriously, what kind of name is _Stiles_?) says and she hears her mother hum in appreciation. For some unknown reason it infuriates her, this stranger and the fondness she hears in her mother’s tone. She wants to wake, but then she feels the light drag of her mother’s fingers across her eyebrows and she relaxes more into the matress.

“Leave it on the nightstand hon. Jo looks so tired and I don’t want to wake her up. I will drink it later, after it has a chance to cool down.”

“It’s not hot. I’ll hold it and you drink.”

She felt her mother shift and then her mother hummed once more.

“That’s …surprisingly good. What did you put in it?”

“That’s a secret. I used to make this for my mom…” there is a pause as if he were going to say more, but no more words come forth for a while, gentle slurps are the only sounds in the room.

A long soft sigh and the sound of a cup returning to a saucer signal that the drink is finished. There must have been some type of silent communication because her mother suddenly speaks.

“No, don’t wake her. Jo’s so busy, I never get to just…it’s nice to have her here, like this. Reminds me of when she was young, before Bill died.”

Her mother’s voice continues softly and it bothers her, this level of comfort that her mother has with this stranger and it may be childish, petulant even but she….she decides she doesn’t like him, not one bit.

Of course, it takes less than the space of a week to change her mind.

* * *

 

** Now **

When she stays at Deuce, she sleeps in one of the more recent additions – an odd room that juts out from the frame of the building and provides shelter from the rain over the back entry to the private quarters. Large bay windows at either end allow the room to catch a view of both sunrise and sunset.

She finds it calming.

(Stiles calls it _meditative_. Jo tells him to shut his mouth, so of course he repeats it over and over until a grin is tugging at the corner of her mouth and she shakes her head and calls him an idjit.)

One bedroom window overlooks the back of Deuce; to one side, she has a partial view of a large patch of grass mama keeps no higher than an inch in the summer with a smaller, fenced plot of land that contains an herb garden. The other overlooks their personal parking – she has a complete view of Proud Mary, Garth’s Ranger, Stiles’ tan jeep wrangler and her Ninja that she rides during the summer whenever she stays at Deuce (Mama hates the motorcycle, calls it the Red Ride of Doom whenever she sees Jo about to take off on it. Jo always laughs and corrects her “Not just red, Mama, _Jungle Red_.”).

She has a queen sized bed, its headboard placed against the center of the windowless wall. When she lies on her bed, the flash of starry sky in the evening from either window gives an illusion that civilization has all but disappeared. It is (meditative) relaxing.

Since her mother was shot a few years back, she tries returns to Sioux Falls more frequently and stays longer than an overnight rest. It’s easier now, she feels less like an errant teenager being grounded than she did when she first started hunting with Garth. The last hunt was grueling; she’s got a new scar that cuts diagonally across her back and Garth took a hit to his knee that has him limping around Singer Salvage as he works the phone lines.

The cut on her back, a souvenir from a hunt two weeks past, has scabbed over enough that it an annoying itch as she ties the waitress apron around her waist and clears abandoned beer bottles from the tables near the pool tables in the back room. She nods at Bryce, the sheriff’s deputy, and hooks her forefinger around an abandoned MGD long-neck at a nearby table. She pauses at his table and hides her smile at how long it takes him to take his gaze away from Stiles to look at her.

“What’s your poison, tonight, Bryce?”

In reply, he turns his bottle until she can see the Coors logo and tilts it slightly so the light hits the bottle enough for her to see that it is still mostly full. She nods and offers a smile.

“Let me know if you need another.”

His attention, though, is focused back on Stiles, who is laughing at something Sam just said. She’s taken a few steps when she hears the deputy ask in a hesitant voice. “Does he…is he…with one of them?”

“Stiles? With Sam or Dean?” She looks over and considers for a moment. Dean has a journal out on the bar counter, Stiles had walked around and stands between Sam and Dean. All three men have their heads down, close together. She can see where someone could easily get the wrong impression but without a detailed narrative that outlines the hunter lifestyle, Sam and Dean’s childhood and what little she has been able to piece together about Stiles’ history, all she can do is shake her head.

“No. They are just …family.”

Bryce nods, relief apparent on his face and Jo wants to shake her head in resignation. Bryce and Stiles had dated for a while after the young hunter had moved in with Ellen, but when Bryce began to push for a more serious commitment, Stiles broke things off.

It had been half a year since the break-up, but Bryce shows up at Deuce occasionally, hoping Stiles will change his mind.

* * *

 

Two hours later, she bumps the swinging kitchen door with her hip and slides two plates across the bar counter toward the Winchesters. Dean looks at his plain veggie burger and hearty spinach salad with a resigned sigh; Sam hardly glances at the food, absently stabs his fork into the salad as he flips a page in the journal.

She would stop to chat, but business gets heavier than usual and by the time she has a chance to take a break, the Winchesters are gone. She pulls a tray of bar glasses from the dishwasher in the kitchen and carries them behind the bar. Her attention on the tray, she doesn’t notice when the redhead walks in.

* * *

 

Margaret, one of Deuce’s cocktail waitresses, walks up to the bar.

“Stiles, honey, got a new one for you tonight,” she is clearing the round cocktail tray, placing the dirty glasses into a bin and then washing her hands. “Bet you have never heard of this one before, I know it’s a first for me.”

Stiles flashes a grin at Margaret as he places clean pint glasses into the freezer under the counter for frosting. “Lay it on me.”

“A dirty martini, but” she draws out the vowel in the word and holds up a finger in the universal “wait for it” sign “but instead of gin, the customer wants tequila!”

She grins and smacks her hands playfully down on the bar.

“But that’s not all! She doesn’t just want any tequila, she wants-”

“Patron.” Stiles finishes, his voice is flat enough that Jo looks at him, her curiosity quickly morphing into alarm. His eyes are darting around the bar until they land on a woman sitting at a table near the back. He stills.

“Stiles? What’s wrong? You look…” her voice fades off, because she doesn’t know how to describe how he looks.

His face is pale, his movements jerky as he pulls the expensive tequila down and adds the liquor to a metal martini shaker. He makes noises under his breath that she can’t quite make out but it is clear that he is trying to work through some internal argument.

“…thinks she can just…like she…no, like _they_ ” he practically snarls the word and both she and Margaret widen their eyes as he continues to mutter. There is color back on his face, his eyes snapping with fire as he covers the shaker and violently shakes it as he continues with his verbal rant. “…can’t just _fucking_ just waltz in here…thinking I would just…just... _what_? _what_?”

He stops the ranting and takes a martini glass from the rack. He adds in a splash of Triple Sec and swishes it around in the glass, then dumps the liquid out. Finally he strains the tequila, adds in a half ounce of vermouth, two olives and a few splashes of olive juice.

“Tell her this one is on the house.” He pulls out a crumpled twenty dollar bill from his back pocket and tells Margaret to keep the change.

His hands are trembling and Jo reaches out, but he pulls away.

“I need some air.” He says and walks out.

* * *

She gives him two minutes then treks through the kitchen to find him, but she is too late, Stiles is gone.

Two minutes later she gets two texts.

 _Jo, can you cover me?_   Had been the first, followed quickly by the next. _Please, no questions._

The air outside is muggy, but she takes a moment to lean back against the brick exterior of Deuce as she stares down at his text.

 _Take all the time you need,_ she replies. She shifts her weight and she can feel the rough brick scratch against her back, the material of her t-shirt too thin to offer much of a barrier. The itch from the healing wound on her back has been persistent of late and she resists the wild impulse to use the brick wall as a scratching post.

With a sigh, she straightens and texts as she walks back into Deuce’s kitchen.

_No questions. I promise._

* * *

 

Margaret picks up the slack on the floor while Jo bartends. She lacks the flair which seems to come naturally to Stiles; the bar counter isn’t quite as tidy, gets sticky from spillage as she mixes the drinks and she thinks her tips for the second half of the evening tend to have more to do with her tight t-shirt and less to do with her skills behind the bar.

(The redhead orders another dirty tequila-tini and Jo spitefully uses the house tequila and doesn’t measure the olive juice that she splashes into the drink. When Margaret carries the drink to the corner table, Jo stops moving to watch. After a minute, the redhead turns and looks toward the bar, eyes skipping over as she searches. Jo isn’t sure what she expects to see, anger or perhaps annoyance. It is neither. It takes her the rest of the shift to place the expression, but at the end of the night, the redhead gathers her belongings and is the last customer to exit the saloon, Jo recognizes the set expression on her face.

 Determination.

* * *

 

The next morning, she wakes to two more texts. The first allowed her to heave a sigh of relief ( _I'm okay._ ); the second caused her to lift an eyebrow ( _I'm with Bryce._ ). _  
_

Later, after Deuce opened, she saw two more.

_Is she still there?_

Followed by:

_No, don’t answer that._

The tone of his text has a million questions rising to the forefront of her mind.

The next day, when she walks down the stairs to begin her shift, Jo scowls when she sees the redhead sitting in the corner of the bar. She admits that she is burning with curiosity, but her thoughts are focused on Stiles as she busies herself with her bartending duties. Traffic into the bar might be slower than usual, but it allows Jo to do other tasks like cleaning dust from the shelves, taking inventory and marking down supplies that will need to be ordered. She doesn't notice when the redhead leaves the table, but she spies the empty seat just as a particularly boisterous gentleman knocks a glass of beer to the floor.

She needs to walk by the table on her way to grab the mop and sees the laptop and books neatly arranged, waiting to be used, which tells her the redhead is nearby. The cleaning supplies are located near the restrooms, which are adjacent another room that holds four large pool tables, walls lined with narrow counters and a variety of stools. The room is empty, save the redhead, who is speaking on her cell phone.

The redhead's voice rings loud in the quiet of the room, and her words are audible as Jo unlocks the door to the supply closet.

" _...don't know what you expected, Scott._ "

There is a brief silence, then she continues. " _Yeah, well he left before I could talk to him and hasn't returned tonight. I think-"_

Another silence. Jo has the mop in her hand now and closes the door to the closet then locks it. She has no reason to linger, but finds herself hesitating on the other side of the wall, staining to hear her words. There was a sharp rise in her voice and she spoke faster, her tone argumentative.

" _Yeah, well, he doesn't know that. All he knows is what Peter told him and then - well you remember the rest -goddammit, Scott! ....Stop it._ _Look. You don't have to convince me. I was there, remember? Mortuus es mihi._ "

The last words are a choked sob. The woman draws a few shaky breaths, then continues.

" _No. Haven't seen any sign of him. I don't think he knows Stiles is alive, let alone here. Are you sure you want to meet him - it could put him in more danger-okay. I'll talk to him. However long it takes._ "

There is another pause, when she speaks again, her voice is soft.

" _Yeah, Scott. He seemed really happy here. It's what we wanted for him, it's why we stayed away, after all...yeah, I know. I didn't think it would hurt this much either._ "

Chewing her lip, she mulls over the words as she returns to clean up the spilled beer on the floor.

* * *

 

Later that evening, the crunch of tires upon gravel waken her, which is no surprise as she slept lightly that night. The dark sky has faded to a deep, soft gray, a signal that dawn is not far away. With a slight rise, she places a palm on the bed to get enough leverage to look out one window just as she hears the muffled thump of a car door being closed. Or Jeep door in this case.

Quickly, she swings her feet off of the mattress foregoing the slippers in her haste to leave her room. Lightly, she pads down the hallway and the back stairs. Wordlessly, Stiles shuffles by, makes a beeline for the bar counter, lined with a row of upside down stools.

He doesn’t speak until after he pulls down a stool and sits. With his elbows on the counter, he holds his head in his hands, turns his head slightly and looks at her through the space created by his arm.

“You get my texts?” his voice is gravelly and raw and worry bubbles within her gut as she crosses the bar.

 She nods, taking the last few steps until she is behind the bar. He sighs and looks at her.

“I’m sorry. For leaving like that. I promise, I won't disappear like that again."

"Stiles, are you-"

"No questions, Jo. You promised. Okay?" she nods and his hard tone softens slightly. "Not now, at least. I'm tired. I'll see you when my shift starts."

He slides off the chair and turns to walk away. That evening, he confronts the redhead. Their conversation is hushed but a few words carry clearly across the room. When the redhead leaves, she has a tight feeling in her chest that this is only the beginning. Ash bets her the woman will be back. She takes the bed and desperately hopes to win, though she suspects he is right.

The tight feeling lessens over the next few weeks.  Stiles starts to smile a little more and things appear to go back to normal.

Until the night Bryce gets a call about an abandoned tan jeep parked on the side of the highway. The fabric on the seats is torn, the passenger door is dented and hangs haphazardly, like something was trying to tear it from the jeep. There is an alarming amount of blood and Stiles is...gone.

Hands shaking as she dials the number, she calls the Winchesters. Bryce has organized a manhunt and has towns people searching the wooded area near the highway. She is at Bobby's where he and Garth are unhooking the jeep from the tow truck. The dents and blood are alarming enough to make her dizzy, but it is the deeply gouged marks on the side of the that have her feel like throwing up.

When Dean answers, she can hardly speak.

Stiles is gone. The jeep was abandoned. There is blood. Stiles is gone.

Dean assures her they are on their way and she is about to disconnect the call when she realizes the scratches on the jeep aren't just scratches. They are words.

"Dean," she asks, her fingers griping the phone tightly, "what does _'Morduus es mihi'_ mean?"

"Why do you ask" his tone is low, cautious..

"The words are scratched on Stiles' jeep."

"Son of a bitch!" he growls. "It means we need to find him. Fast."

He hangs up before she can ask further.

Jo closes her phone and gets on her motorcycle to join the hunt for Stiles.

Had she stayed on the phone a few seconds longer, she would have heard the distinct sound of a third party disconnecting from the call as well.

 


End file.
